They stand over my grave in silence before Marco leads them to the car and drives Willa and Dara south to New York—but not to the city. He helps them find an apartment in Saratoga before he flees to seclusion in Harlem. He is shaking and twitching throughout the ride, his hands gripping the steering wheel as if he’s afraid to let it go. He is frightened, unsure, not himself. Van Owen has done something to him, something that I’m not there to fix. Only Marco can make himself whole again, and he will when Warren comes to him years later.
Abruptly, the scene changes. The images accelerate. Dara is older now—nineteen, bringing Carl Kelly home to introduce him to her mother.
“You’re a horse trainer?” Willa quizzes him, enjoying her vantage point as the disapproving mother-in-law. “You think it’s all right then to keep horses locked up in barns and raised for the sole purpose of wining money and being trophies for rich white men?”
Carl is young and handsome. The tension is there in his brow, but he lacks the veneer of anger and sadness that will hang from him in his later years. “No, Ma’am, I don’t. Too many horses are treated terribly. That’s why they need me—to protect them, to help them grow up strong, to keep them comfortable, to make their lives better.” Willa smiles, and the scene shifts again.
There are snippets of the wedding. Dara is beautiful, a princess in a delicate white dress. Carl is ecstatic. I marvel as he twirls Willa around the dance floor, even as she keeps her eye on the door, always vigilant, always waiting, just like I was.
Then Warren is born—finally a birth unmarred by Van Owen, who must still be healing somewhere. How many years will it be before he is strong enough again to hunt my family?
Father and son are inseparable; Warren follows Carl everywhere. They are alike in looks and behavior and disposition. Then comes Jerome, big and strong and athletic, even as a child. Warren and Jerome are fast friends, but as Jerome grows, their father pays less and less attention to Warren. Eventually, Warren is left to fend for himself more and more—becoming solitary and sad. Then the third child is born—Terry. He is a weak and sickly baby. Dara stays with him around the clock, keeping up hope even when the doctors warn that he might not survive.
The scene shifts again. Warren is fifteen. He walks through the front door of their Saratoga home, attempting to stand upright and steady, but there’s something wrong with him. He’s sweating; his eyes are bloodshot.
Carl rises from the sofa. “Where’s Terry?”
Warren is confused. “What?”
“Your brother. You were supposed to pick him up from school.” Carl begins to look alarmed.
“Oh, damn,” Warren says, rubbing his head, his voice faraway and odd. “I kept thinking I forgot something.”
“Forgot something?” his father bellows. “He’s four years old! You were supposed to pick him up an hour ago. God damn it! What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing…”
Carl seizes Warren by the shoulders. “Look at your eyes. You’re high, aren’t you?”
Warren almost lies, but then he seems to take pride in delivering the news. “Yeah, I’m high. So? What do you care? I told you I wanted to talk. I needed your help, but you wouldn’t listen. I needed…”
Willa appears at the top of the stairs. She is older now but still vigorous, a commanding presence. Dara is beside her, huge in her gray maternity dress; she is nearly due. Still, she glides down the stairs like a dancer. “What’s all the yelling?” she asks, trying to lighten the mood.
“Look at his eyes,” Carl groans, still gripping his son’s shoulders. “He was supposed to pick Terry up from school, and he shows up here high instead. His eyes are so red I can barely see them…”
“Let go of me,” Warren shouts, pulling away. “When was the last time you ever cared where I was after school or what time I got home? And since when did you ever care where Terry is before? You don’t pay attention to either of us…”
Carl is incensed. “How dare you raise your voice to me!” He looks as if he might actually strike Warren.
Finally, Dara steps between them. “That’s enough! What good is this doing anybody? I’m calling the school to see about Terry.”
As she goes for the phone, Carl storms about the room as if he could tear the furniture to pieces. “How long has this been going on?” he demands of Warren.
“What?”
“The drugs!”
Warren stutters as he answers. “A while. I’ve tried to tell you before, but you never have the time to listen. I…need them sometimes. It’s like everything gets to be too much, and I just…”
“You just what? You need to get high?”
“No! Don’t you notice anything anymore? I’ve been trying to tell you about this…but it’s like I don’t even exist. You don’t even realize what I can do now.”
Carl lowers his voice. “This isn’t the time to…”
“He’s not at school,” Dara interrupts as she hangs up the phone. “Terry’s not at school. They don’t know where he is. They think he left a while ago.” She looks frightened.
“You see what you’ve done, Warren,” Carl thunders.
“Please stop,” Dara shouts, approaching them with one hand on her belly. “Do you have to do this now, Carl? Please…”
“Yes, everybody, calm down,” Willa adds.
“If anything happens to Terry,” Carl rails at Warren, “it’s your fault…”
“No, Pop, it’s your fault… you set the tone here. Everybody’s always on edge because of you… everyone’s got to jump at your command…”
“Please stop,” Dara cries again, louder but weaker.
“That’s right,” Carl shouts at Warren, so close that their faces are almost touching, “everyone should jump. Life isn’t a game…”
Dara gasps and stumbles forward, grabbing onto the couch for support. Carl takes her arm and lowers her onto the cushion.
“It’s the baby,” says Willa.
“No,” says Dara, “The contractions are still far apart. There’s time…” Then she cringes again. Another contraction. The baby is indeed coming.
“You see what you’ve done,” Carl tells Warren.
“We should get her to a hospital,” says Warren.
“No hospital,” Willa and Carl say in unison, each avoiding the other’s glance.
“We birth at home in this family,” says Willa, feigning calmness. “You know that. Now let’s get Dara back upstairs,” she adds, helping her daughter up from the couch.
“Carl,” Dara begs, “please stop fighting. Just go find Terry.”
“I’ll go find him,” Warren offers, starting for the door.
“You’ll do nothing,” Carl orders. “You’ll go to your room and you’ll sit there and wait until I get back.”
Warren grits his teeth. “You don’t get it. You can’t tell me what to do anymore.” And he races out the door.
“Get back here…” Carl shouts, but Warren is already gone.
“Is he going after Terry?” Dara calls as she climbs the staircase.
“I don’t know where he’s going,” answers Carl.
“Well, then you’ve got to go find Terry.”
Carl follows them into the bedroom and kneels by his wife, who lies uncomfortably on the bed. “Somebody has to stay here with you…”
“My mother’s here with me. Go after Terry.”
“But… you might…need me here…I’ve always been here when the babies came…”
Dara’s voice is gentle, reassuring. “And my mother is the one who delivers the babies. What I need now is for you to find Terry.”
Carl kisses her, telling her he will be back as soon as he can. Then he is gone.
Back in her room, Dara looks concerned about more than just the baby. “Terry should be here,” she tells Willa. He has to be here. That’s what Amara told you.”
“Maybe I didn’t remember it quite right,” Willa offers.
Dara nods no. “Tell me again what she said.
What was in her vision?”
“I don’t remember,” Willa lies poorly. “It was forty years ago…and she could have been wrong.”
“Amara was never wrong; you told me that yourself. So tell me what she…”
“All Amara said was that Terry would be here when Regina is born, that he would keep Regina safe. I can’t imagine how, though. Amara didn’t know either.”
Indeed, that was all I told Willa, for it was all I knew then. In earlier visions, I had seen only Terry holding the baby, keeping her safe from Van Owen. I didn’t know then how he would do it, but I feel I will soon.
Dara clenches her jaw with each contraction, never crying out though she is clearly in pain. Willa mops Dara’s forehead, soothing her.
The contractions come in waves, but Dara rides them stoically, her focus shifting from window to door to Willa. Finally, Willa announces, “I can see the baby.”
“Well, she’d better hurry,” Dara says weakly. “He’s almost here.”
“Who,” asks Willa, “Terry?”
“No. Van Owen.” She jolts with pain. “I can feel him.”
“No…not now,” Willa says. “Push, Dara…push...!”
“He knows, Mother. He knows about the baby. That’s why he’s here. He knows it’s a girl. I don’t think he could sense the boys…but he knows about the girl…”
“Can you hear him? Is he talking to you?”
“He’s been talking to me—in my mind—for the last hour, even before Warren came home. That’s why I made Carl leave. I didn’t want to scare you. Listen…” Dara closes her eyes. “I’ll let you hear him.” She opens her mind to Willa, but I can hear too.
The voice is raspy. It echoes as if resounding off the walls of a tomb, but the tone is unmistakable. It’s Van Owen. “Do you know how long it took,” he drones, “before they found me in that chasm where your mother dropped me? Twenty-three days. My spine was fractured. My neck was broken. Internal bleeding throughout. No food. Only snow to drink for nourishment. Twenty-three days of watching the silhouette of the sun rising and falling. Twenty-three days of near-darkness, near-freezing. The doctors couldn’t understand how I was alive. And yet I did live—I willed myself to live. I spent four years in that hospital, learning to walk again, trying to relearn how to use these gifts that fate gave me.”
“You mean the gifts you stole from Amara and Kwame,” Dara corrects him telepathically.
“No, Dara," he says. “You lie to yourself. I was given these gifts because I was meant to have them. It was God’s will. Power like this wasn’t meant for primitive creatures like you and your kind. By the time I made that last voyage to West Africa, slavery had been outlawed for years. I was a wealthy man, done with expeditions and slave-hunting. Yet I was drawn to take that trip. I was meant to take that trip. This power was meant for a man of my ilk. It’s taken me decades to regain mastery over these abilities, but it’s all come back. And more. Because this is nature's plan for me.”
“Then you should be happy and just go and leave us alone,” Dara answers him.
“How can I? How can I do that when your family owes me so much? Your progenitrix, Amara, belonged to me. She was my property, and, thus, so are her offspring and their offspring. The landscape of this nation may have changed, but natural law cannot be altered. I rescued your family from savagery, from an aboriginal existence, and brought you to this land of modernity and opportunity…”
“Rescued us? You were a slaver and a murderer…”
He laughs his reply with the tone of a parent teaching an infant child. “You don’t know what I am, little girl…”
“Then tell me what you are—tell me what you want from us.”
“That should be obvious. I want your child.”
“You can’t have her.” Dara trembles with pain, but she continues communicating with Van Owen. “If you come near me or my baby, and I’ll put you right back in a hospital.”
“Idle threats. If you could stop me, you would have done it already. Your ability might be similar to hers, but clearly you’re just a pale facsimile of Amara.”
“Don’t listen to him,” says Willa. “Push.”
Dara groans as she clutches the bed sheets.
“Almost,” Willa urges, “almost…push…”
“Yes, Dara,” Van Owen goads her, “push… deliver that child. I’ll be there soon to collect her.”
The front door opens and then closes again. Willa nearly jumps.
“No,” says Dara, “it’s not Van Owen.”
Terry’s voice rises from downstairs, cheerful, full of energy and innocence. “Mom, Pop…I did it…I did it…I walked home by myself!”
“We’re upstairs,” Willa calls out.
“Grandma,” the four-year-old Terry shouts as he drops his book bag and runs up the stairs, “Warren wasn’t there to meet me. I waited for a while, and then I walked home on my own…I wasn’t scared. I found my way on my own!” He bursts into his parents’ bedroom just as Willa pulls the newborn baby into the world. Terry stares in wonder at his sister—so small but with huge eyes that seem to stare out at Terry.
“She’s not crying. Is she okay?” Dara asks breathlessly.
Willa pats the baby’s bottom, and she begins to weep softly.
“Let me see her,” says Dara.
Willa wipes the child with a soft, wet cloth. She cuts and ties the umbilical cord, just as she watched me do all those years ago. She lays Regina across Dara’s chest. “Yes,” Dara whispers as she gently rocks the child, “you go on and cry. Terry, this is your sister, Regina. It’s going to be your job to look out for her.” Terry is so awestruck that he cannot speak, but he nods yes. “Mother,” Dara says, turning to Willa, “he’s almost here.”
“Then it’s time for me to go.” Willa’s expression is blank, but her voice is strong. She kisses Dara’s forehead, before heading toward the door. As she leaves, she echoes my own words from decades earlier: “I love you, dear. Goodbye.”
“No,” says Dara, grabbing Willa by the wrist. She breathes in sharply, her eyes glazing over as if she’s entering a trance. “The baby’s out. I’m stronger now. I can fight him.”
“No,” shouts Willa as she pulls away and runs from the room. “Terry, stay here with your mother.”
There is a flash of light, and the front door to the house cracks down the middle into two pieces—two wooden shards that fall inward to the floor. Willa stops on the stairs and prepares herself. There in the doorway stands Hendrik Van Owen, not a day older than when she last saw him. He wears a tight black leather jacket and white pants tucked into black boots. His hair still hangs to his shoulders. He holds a cane in his left hand.
“You,” he rumbles, pointing at Willa on the stairs. “I remember you.” He opens his hand, and it begins to glow. “This is for throwing me off that cliff, you sow.”
“No,” Willa growls. She raises her arm, and Van Owen flies out the door and backward thirty feet, careening into his car, which he has parked on the sidewalk in front of the house. While in the air, though, Van Owen issues his own attack. The lightning flies from his fingertips, missing Willa but striking the staircase on which she stands. The entire house quakes from the impact. The lower stair column shatters, and the upper stairs collapse downward, Willa with them.
“Mother!” Dara calls from the bedroom as she comforts the baby. Willa does not answer. Dara is beginning to panic. “Terry, I need you to be strong now. Come here.” She holds the baby out to him. “I need you to take Regina and hide somewhere…anywhere… the closet…the attic… just take her and go…”
Without hesitation, Terry takes the child, but he’s too frightened to move. He stands there beside the bed, holding Regina, who stares soundlessly up at him. She reaches up and touches his face. “Mom,” Terry stutters, “I…I can’t…”
“Protect her, Terry. I know you can. I have to go now. There’s a bad man who wants to hurt us and take Regina away from us. I can’t allow that. I have to stop hi
m.” She is weak as she tries to stand, almost stumbling to her feet.
A car screeches to a halt outside. “You shouldn’t have come here,” Carl Kelly shouts as he steps from behind the driver’s seat.
“Oh, no,” Dara says, “not now.” She can hear the humming in the air, a buzz-saw sound that almost tickles her ear. Then her face goes blank even as her eyes keep darting back and forth.
“Mom?” says Terry. “Mom?”
“I’m joining your father now,” she tells him. “I need to help him.” She’s reaching out with her mind, trying to enter Carl’s, trying to take over his will so that she can protect him—make him run away to safety. But as she invades his mind, she reads his thoughts, and she begins to discover what he has hidden from her—and so do I. What a fool I’ve been. What fools we’ve all been.
Terry runs to the window, clutching the baby against his shoulder. Outside, Van Owen is on his knees, recovering from Willa’s attack, but he is standing to face Terry’s father.
“I didn’t know,” says Dara softly as she reads his mind and knows his secrets. “Oh, Carl…”
Outside, Carl’s eyes are empty as if he is sleepwalking. He looks down at his hands, which are shimmering vaguely. His expression suggests surprise as he holds his hands up and stares at them. But it is not his surprise that I see on his face—it is Dara’s, for it is she who is in control of his mind and body.
“He didn’t need me to protect him,” whispers Dara from upstairs, her voice strained. “Carl…let me go… let me out, please…God, no…I can’t get out of his mind…!”
I can hear her thoughts; I can feel her struggle as she tries to wrench herself free from him, but Carl is lost in a dream world. All he knows is that Dara is there with him—connected to him—and he doesn’t ever want to let her out.
“Can’t break free…” she whispers. “Too weak. He thinks he’s dreaming. And I don’t know how to use his power…” The shimmer on his hands fades.
“No,” says Carl, but it’s Dara speaking the word.
Van Owen is oblivious to the struggle going on in Carl’s mind. “Why can’t I read your thoughts?” he asks Carl.
The response comes from both Dara’s lips upstairs and Carl’s lips outside at the same time: “Because I’m not letting you.”
Chains of Time Page 23
